


Don't Follow Strange Women: a guide to safety by Porthos du Vallon

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-29 14:27:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7687960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the aftermath of that time Aramis went off on his own and evaded orders from the queen but it all turned out okay really and what's a concussion and a broken arm between friends... uh, Your Majesty?<br/>Because it's going to happen.<br/>Maybe Porthos and Anne can bond a little, with the fury and frustration and that.</p><p>Prompted by Thimlerig. It's not an exact fill. It deals with the aftermath, and Porthos and Anne's relationship, and Aramis and Porthos's relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Follow Strange Women: a guide to safety by Porthos du Vallon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thimblerig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thimblerig/gifts).



> WARNINGS: Porthos talks about his canon childhood which isn't very happy, 
> 
> I'm not a particular fan of Anne and this is not a particularly positive portrayal, it's not hugely negative but if you're looking for an Anne centric, Anne positive fic, this isn't it. 
> 
> Relationships are spoilers, so if you want to see, I've put a note at the end. There ARE relationships, this is NOT gen. sorry gen- wanting- people :/
> 
> Thimblerig- as you gave me permission for a little co-opting, I went ahead and co-opted. I hope you enjoy, and I hope the co-opting does not upset the prompt you had in mind. Thank you for your many comments and your feedback and your prompt. I appreciate it all.

Porthos hasn’t been back in Paris five minutes before he runs into trouble. As he tells everyone repeatedly, it is not his trouble he runs into. It is Aramis’s. He’s become used to not having to deal with Aramis’s trouble. As a general, he does a lot less ‘dealing with personal messes’ than he did previously. It’s the men under his command who do that sort of thing. Other people’s responsibility. His job is ensuring supplies get through, planning, strategy, meetings, and lots of paperwork. 

There’s paperwork in the Aramis mess, as well. In fact, Porthos sits around the Louvre filling in paperwork, writing and reading reports, and waiting for intelligence. The queen comes and goes, demanding information, roaring at Porthos for not leaping on a horse and chasing after Aramis. Porthos bows politely and nods at her suggestions and advice. d’Artagnan, who had leapt on a horse and also comes and goes, finds it all terribly amusing. 

“You know she’ll catch on,” d’Artagnan says, boots on the desk, hat over his face, dozing before leaping on horses and riding off again, in vain pursuit. 

“Who will catch on to what?” Porthos mutters, pouring over Brujon’s report. 

“Is that even about Aramis?”

“No, it’s about the prisoners of war I came to Paris to negotiate on behalf of,” Porthos snaps. “I have a meeting with a Spanish delegate outside the city tonight and would prefer to have the information ready. I am also in Paris to petition the queen about supplies, and to talk to you about musketeers.”

“Yes, but Aramis is missing. I mean, I know he’s an idiot, but it is a little worrying.”

“I know where he is,” Porthos says. “He’s safe enough for now, and out of trouble. If he’s injured, it’s his own stupid fault and he can deal with it. He may even escape before I have time to mount a rescue.”

“You know where he is?”

“More or less. I’ve followed the trail he left, and gathered information on where he broke his orders, and have received intelligence on a possible outcome, and there’s also been three reports from various inns suggesting he is most probably drunk by now.”

“Why didn’t you tell her majesty?”

“Why on earth would I tell the queen? Is she going to mount a rescue? What’s she gonna do, ride out there in a wimple and offer bread and cheese in return for her minister? I’ve told her I’ll get him back, given her pertinent information, and suggested she wait patiently like the rest of us. Same as I told you,” Porthos says. 

d’Artagnan gapes at him for a while. Then he takes his boots off the desk and sits up, placing his hat neatly on his knees. Porthos finishes reading Brujon’s report and pulls a piece of paper toward him, dipping his pen and scribbling notes. He has a few ideas he thinks the Spanish might like, depending on who comes and what sort of remit they have. He flips the paper and plans an ambush, an escape, and runs through scenarios. 

“Porthos.”

“Mm?”

“Is Aramis safe? Really?”

“No idea. I can’t…” Porthos stops writing and puts down his pen with a sigh, rubbing his face. He looks up and meets d’Artagnan’s eyes. “He stopped trustin’ me a long time ago, d’Art. He don’t tell me stuff anymore, keeps secrets, does his own thing. He always was one for going off half-cocked, all three of you were. I had to be the steady one, keep what balance I could. I don’t have to do that any more, and I have no real wish to. I will help him, and I will pray for him to his God, but I can only prioritize him as minister, not as a friend.”

“Is he not a friend?”

“A very good one, as you know. My best. Which means I know him inside and out. I can’t make this about him. He’s done something stupid, and I am not his nurse. I have set Brujon to come up with possibilities, he’s got a good mind and thinks strategic, he could do with the practise and feedback this’ll give him. I’ve also got a couple of captains doing a bit of scouting and working on it. I’ve given as much of my personal attention… he disobeyed orders, again. Went off on his own track, again. Didn’t look to his safety, again. Didn’t bother to think about how much trouble this would be for the rest of us. Again. I’ll fetch him. For now, I have other work, and you have a garrison you’ve neglected.”

Porthos ducks over his papers again, and waits for d’Artagnan to leave. Which he does, eventually. Porthos puts his work aside and writes a letter to Athos, full of recrimination and frustration. Then he scrunches it up and tosses it in the bin, focussing. The Queen drifts back in. 

“Anything?” she asks. 

“Your majesty. What can I do for you?” Porthos says. 

“Aramis!”

“Yes, Ma’am. We will deal with the minister in the morning. He will be safe until then. Would you like an update on the hostage negotiations? I believe I can have the Duc d'Orleans returned. He would be a great asset to Paris right now, he commands a lot of respect and loyalty.”

“I don’t care about Orleans. Go tonight, for Aramis.”

Porthos nods politely and steers her away from getting a solid reply, or a promise, on that. They need the Duc, they need his men and his loyalty. The people are restive about their Spanish queen again, after a publication that Porthos is certain Sylvie had something to do with. Though Athos says not. She has a distinctive style of polemic. Criticism of the queen, however just, needs a counter balance. The Duc is a good one. Gaston’s death served Paris well.

“There is another way to release Orleans,” Porthos murmurs, raising his head and meeting the queen’s eyes. 

“Yes?”

“I know where he is being held. I know a woman who is incredibly skilled at manipulation. I believe she could free him. There would be repercussions, however. The men she would need to dispose of have friends. French friends. Shall I lay out the price you would pay for such action?” Porthos says. 

And then he lays it out without waiting for an answer. He lists the lives, the political ground, the allies, they’d lose. There, in her eyes, as his lists grow, he sees the flicker of guilt and knows he was not wrong about her plans. 

“The letters Aramis was sent with.”

“How did you know-?”

“It is always letters. Does he know that the Duke of Buckinham is a man who… admires you?”

“Yes, he knows.”

“Very well. I suggest I spent this evening negotiating for Orlean. Tomorrow, I will free Aramis. I would have him write to Madame de Chevreuse, in Spain. I know she was banished by your husband, but she would be a powerful political allie. She could do much to alley... repercussions. The Prince de Conde is a man loved by many, he would be a great asset in keeping your people loyal to your crown. I cannot negotiate for him, he is in Spanish custody by choice. However, Madame de Chevreuse is a very, very persuasive woman.”

“Why must Orleans come before Aramis?”

“I have little choice but if I did, I would still choose to prioritize Orleans. He outranks Aramis, he is a greater asset than Aramis both in Paris and at the front, and, Ma’am, your majesty, Anne. Orleans is a man you need. Aramis is a man you want.”

The queen strides away, calling for her maid, sending for Constance. Porthos makes sure he’s not in the office when Constance arrives. He’s already had her at him a couple of times today, for various things. For missing Marie-Cessette’s birthday, among others. He’s not pleased with her for that. He could hardly have left the front at that moment. He had been ‘guest’ with a Spanish lord whose intelligence he needed to buy, who he had misjudged and ended up, somehow, with a few things he’d never agree to pay on the table. His life and freedom being among those. 

Prisons and hostages come in all shapes and sizes. 

When they do free Aramis, Porthos does ride out. He waits, half a mile away, his restless discomfort communicated to his horse and sending him dancing nervously. His men come under captain Baudet, and they bear Aramis. Porthos swings off his horse and jerks forwards, taking Aramis from them. There’s blood in his hair, and his arm is bound to his body, his clothes dirty, his cheek grazed and bleeding. Porthos fumbles for his pulse, and breathes out a long, weary, sigh of relief at finding one. 

Porthos lifts Aramis onto the horse before him, and holds him the whole way back to Paris. When he rides into the courtyard at the Louvre, Constance and d’Artagnan are waiting for him and he gets approving smiles. He passes Aramis down and then sits on his horse, holding the pommel, shaking. d’Artagnan holds the horse steady and waits. 

“I’d not have forgive myself,” Porthos murmurs. “Level-headed duty. Bugger this.”

“I think the queen is angry with him,” d’Artagnan says, sounding amused. 

“God damn you, d’Artagnan. Do you read the reports that cross your desk? Do you know what men like those bandits might do to a body? Aramis was lucky he fell in with ex-soldier who had clung to some kind of code. The woman wasn’t even in danger, she was a lure. He never learns.”

“Would you have done differently?” d’Artagnan says. “Of course I read the reports. You told me he was safe, though. I trust your judgement.”

“Safe enough. I know two of them men. They’d have laid down their lives if it went too far.”

“Come down from the horse, so we might go to him?” d’Artagnan says. “You’re trembling.”

“From rage,” Porthos says. 

d’Artagnan shrugs, so Porthos dismounts. He counts off the windows and finds Aramis’s rooms. Aramis demanded a view of the courtyard, long ago, in order that he could ‘see Porthos, and others, arrive as soon as might be’. Porthos goes, ignoring the guards, ignoring d’Artagnan trailing after him, ignoring the queen in Aramis’s chamber. Aramis is awake, making a joke. Porthos goes and pokes his bad arm with a growl, and Aramis yelps.

“Porthos! Ow! Anne has already yelled at me, that wasn’t needed,” Aramis says. “Did you come to Paris to save me?”

“You stupid idiot,” Porthos growls, shoulders coming up, stance loosening. 

“Were you worried?” Aramis teases, reaching up to touch Porthos’s armour over his chest. “What a heart.”

“I wasn’t worried, actually,” Porthos says. “They were. They caused me no end of trouble. I am in Paris on business, not to iron out your trouble and listen to your entourage worry away about you, pickin’ at me.”

“You love me,” Aramis says. “I’m fine, by the way. Broken arm and concussion, but only a small one, your majesty! And I got the concussion before I disobeyed your orders. I fell from my horse when she spooked.”

“After you disobeyed orders. You were supposed to loop the forest, your route was given to you. For a reason,” Porthos says. Aramis opens his mouth. “I know it takes longer, but the forest happens to be full of desperate men who would very, very much like to cut the throat of the man who had a hand in sending them to war and not payin’ their pension.”

“I did not have a hand in the pension thing,” Aramis says, scowling. 

“Oh, I apologise. Has it recently been put about how much Mazarin, currently the most hated man in the country, has been involved in Palace goings on in the past few years? Are we not still sticking to the story of him working alone, and being in the Chatalet for it? In that case-”

“Fine,” Aramis grumbles. 

“You sanctimonious little shit,” Porthos says, sinking into a chair. “You bloody sanctimonious, righteous little toad. Consequences, repercussions. You never learn. You are not needed by the crown, Minister. You are not indispensible, are not useful, politically, right now. You have no noble position, no social standing. You are minister because of your mind, I wish you’d use it.”

“I think there was a compliment buried in there,” Aramis says. “Did I not mention, Anne already shouted.”

“Yes, well, she’s queen of France and has been annoying the shit out of me the last few days,” Porthos grumbles, softly, only for Aramis’s ears. “Do you know how irritating it is to be haunted by a monarch?”

Aramis laughs, which hurts both his head and his arm. Porthos wishes he felt no sympathy, but he’s known Aramis too long. His tender stomach will protest every laugh and jolt until it revolts. Concussions mean suffering, for Aramis. Porthos reaches out and holds him steady, then rests a hand on his stomach, thumb rubbing comfortingly. Aramis reaches and presses his chest again. 

“I do appreciate your heart, my friend,” Aramis says. “I apologise for making a mess of things again.”

“You will have to learn. You have to,” Porthos says. “Aramis, I cannot be here like this, I cannot, I really cannot. You cannot rely on me, or Anne, or d’Artagnan. We all have other duties and other concerns, and we cannot prioritize you. I know how and why you are, and I love you. Compassion can come with reason. You do not have to throw all caution to the wind to be a good man. You’re a good man despite your reckless heroism, not because of it. If none of that means anything to you, then think of Louis. He has already lost one father.”

“That is low,” Aramis says. “Anne, he is using my son.”

“Good,” the queen says, coming to the other side of the bed, with a bowl of water and a cloth. 

She bathes Aramis’s face. Porthos watches, bemused, wondering if Aramis has a fever. But, not, his skin is cool, a little clammy if anything. He’s already clean, too, and his graze has been treated. Aramis likes the attention and purrs a little under the pointless ministrations of the queen, forgetting Porthos for the moment. 

“d’Artagnan, we might as well speak now,” Porthos says, tugging off his boots and putting his feet on Aramis’s bed. 

They ache, as do his legs, and his back. As if he’s getting old. Soldier-old, Elodie says. Too many scars. Athos says tiredness, and desk work, and usually ends up grumbling about the paperwork he had to do as captain. Conveniently forgetting that Porthos did it for him nine times out of ten. Delegation, Athos had called it. 

“Do you have complaints about the men I sent to the front?” d’Artagnan asks, drawing Porthos from his thoughts, and his aches. 

“No idea. I haven’t heard anything from my captains,” Porthos says, shrugging. “They’d probably go straight to you, though, to be honest, unless they wanted me to exploit my friendship with you for something. No, I merely hoped you might offer training to soldiers of other regiments. There are skills that I would like to utilize more widely.”

“Do you have details?” 

“Mm. Got a report for you, figures and stuff. Couple of suggestions from Brujon in there.”

“He’s still valuable?”

“Yeah, he’s great. Is it do-able?”

“We are the people’s musketeers, now, not the king’s. We can pass the skills on, they need not be kept for an elite.”

“Good, good,” Porthos says, pleased d’Artagnan knew what he was asking. “Let’s set up a meeting to look at the report, it’ll have to be tomorrow I’m returning to the front day after that.”

“No you’re not, you’re visiting Athos,” Aramis murmurs, head turning back to Porthos, eyes heavy. 

“Go to sleep, nuisance,” Porthos says. Then, “Aramis?”

“Mm?”

“Did they cut your hair?”

Aramis laughs, hand catching Porthos’s. 

“No. I knew you’d dislike it. I am teaching the king to spar, and he’s getting better. This is easier,” Aramis says. 

“You can see your ears,” Porthos grumbles. “Don’t they get cold? I bet Elodie could knit you sommat for that. I’ll get on it, see if she’s got any ideas. Yeah, better do that. You always at least partly cover ‘em. They’re so little.”

“I’m rather fond of them,” Anne says, stroking one. 

“Better get going,” Porthos says, ignoring that. “Back to Ellie, talk about that knitting.”

He lumbers to his feet, stiff, and leaves the room to the queen. As she wanted. He reads her with ease, despite her training in subtlety. He finds Constance outside the door. 

“Waiting on the queen?” he asks. “Might be a while. She was on about Aramis’s ears, and doing stroking.”

“You sound jealous,” Constance teases. 

Porthos snarls at her, irritated. She’s never been one to react to his threats like that, though, and he’s never been one for follow through, so they link arms and walk companionably toward the side entrance, automatically falling into step. 

“Charles?” Constance asks. 

“He’s got duties here,” Porthos says. “Whether or not he’ll bother with those duties I do not know. Did you know Athos… how many years ago would it have been, now? Before d’Artagnan, by about two, three years? Two years.”

“I’ve known him since I came to Paris, so, yeah.”

“He ever talk about Madame de Chevreuse?”

“Yes. I met her twice, I liked her.”

“Did she like you?”

“Yes.”

“Aramis has letters to write. How does a little work for me sound?”

“Messenger?”

“How about spy? Sound better?”

“Much. Done. You have to tell Charles and Anne, though. They’re both silly about that sort of thing.”

“Mm. You up for a drink?”

“Not heading home?”

“Marie’s in bed, Elodie probably too. Still angry. I’ll tell you about missing that birthday, eh? Need a few in me before I can, though.”

“Porthos, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.”

“Mm.”

“Wine, at the garrison. I have a little work that needs doing, and we still have cadets who come back after drinking too much. Or don’t come back. Someone needs to be on call.”

They drink well into the night, and Porthos edges his way carefully around his captivity, his anger with Aramis, the love and fear and rage that Aramis creates in him. And Athos. They end on Athos. 

“You miss him,” Constance slurs, head resting on an arm on the table, her free hand stroking his biceps. 

“All three of them, yeah.”

“Miss him.”

“Yeah. Alright? Yeah, I miss him, I never see ‘im. He rarely writes.”

“Do you write?”

“You seen how many reports I write in a day? Nah, I don’t write. He’s well practiced in the art of scratching off something quick.”

“Have you told him you want him to write?”

Porthos shrugs. He hasn’t, which is probably the problem. He gets long missives from Aramis, but they’re mostly screeds about theology, or some trouble, or long-winded updates about Louis. 

“d’Artagnan writes good letters,” Porthos says, then falls asleep on the table, snoring into the wine he spilled there. 

He wakes to Elodie standing over him, Marie in her arms, not looking particularly impressed. He takes Marie and glances at Constance, who looks like she bathed in alcohol last night and feels it. 

“Aramis?” Porthos mumbles, kissing Marie’s curls. Big blond ringlets, like an angel from a book. “Hello angel.”

“Papa. Table,” Marie announces, slaps the table, and makes snoring noises that are a surprisingly good imitation of him. 

“Yeah,” Porthos admits. “In that pink puddle an’ all.”

Marie nods sagely and kicks her chubby legs. 

“Aramis is doing fine,” Elodie says. “Are you feeling better?”

“Mm,” Porthos says. “Want to come to the palace and tell your uncle that he has to write to a lady, chicken?”

“Take her. Yes, please,” Elodie says. “I have so many things I could be doing.”

“She has both nurse and governess,” Porthos points out. “And if those ‘things’ involve that press we’ve spoken of-”

“Them ‘things’ involve the people, not the press, and it’s not your place to stop me,” Elodie says. 

“No. Just my job to deal with the consequences.”

“Women have the right to safety,” Elodie says. “We have a right to live, and live well, and to know things if we like.”

“You’ll know everything you ever like, my love,” Porthos tells Marie. “We’ll buy a library for you, and get the most learned of all men in to see to your education.”

“And women,” Elodie says.

Porthos gets up and heads for the wash room. He bathes with Marie, letting her splash about for as long as she likes. They head to palace, Marie on his shoulders. They find the queen on the bed with Aramis, and Porthos’s mood sours a little. He knocks loudly on the door then barges in and waits for her to get up and leave, eyes fixed on the wall. She gets up, but doesn’t leave. 

“What should we do with him, Porthos?” she says. “We need to do something about this. He only broke a bone, this time, but the next? And the next, and the next?”

“You majesty,” Porthos says, swinging Marie down and bowing. Marie curtsies and stands quiet at his side. “What would you like me to do?”

“Tie him to the bed, make him obey orders, I don’t know,” she says. “I thought… perhaps you and I, as friends…”

“As you wish, ma’am,” Porthos says, bowing again. 

“Anne? Ah, Porthos is here! You left yesterday,” Aramis announces from the bed. 

Porthos bows again, and the queen gets the hint and sweeps from the room. Maries, once she’s gone, runs to the bed and jumps on, jostling Aramis’s head and arm. Porthos sits in the chair again and broods. 

“You were rude to my wife,” Aramis says.

“You are not married to the queen of France,” Porthos says. “You know this.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps I shall marry this beautiful young woman,” Aramis says, setting Marie giggling. “Ah, not my arm, darling, that’s a really sore bit right now.”

“C’mere, chick,” Porthos says, scooping her off the bed. Aramis pouts. “What are we here for again, Marie?”

“Ladies of letters,” Marie says. “Like Mamman likes.”

Elodie would not be too pleased if she knew the manipulation Porthos has in mind. The Conde is someone she admires. He’s going to use and twist those things everyone admires, and turn it into politics. He understands Richelieu much more, these days. And understands why Treville was friends with the man. He shuts his eyes thinking of Treville, the grief of that still close, buried deep in his heart like a shard. 

“Papa?”

“Madame de Chevreuse,” Porthos says. “Flattery, seduction, promise. Anne can teach you the art of making love through words, how to carry on a dalliance without making a spectacle of yourself and having sex you shouldn’t.”

“Porthos!” Aramis says. “I am perfectly capable-”

“No you’re not, you don’t even know what it is,” Porthos says. “Make love without sex. Do you understand?”

“No,” Aramis admits. “This is about Buckingham, isn’t it?”

“For Anne. For you it is about Madame de Chevreuse. I need ‘er.”

“Need her, for Mamman,” Marie says. “Teaching.”

“If you like. I’m sure she’d teach you something. Who knows what. Not sure Mamman would approve, really,” Porthos says. “Oh, and I’m using Milady.”

“Porthos!” Aramis says again.

“Orleans will be released. We will pay the price. And then, we will remind Spain that we choose to negotiate, that it is not a necessity,” Porthos says. “It is them who must make peace, we have the power, the cards.”

“Milady,” Marie says, pleased with the name. 

“She’s a lady, too,” Porthos says. “Mamman isn’t fond of her though. A very useful lady to the queen.”

“What are you teaching her?” Aramis asks.

“Politics,” Porthos says. “She’s gonna be a powerful woman, she’s gonna need this stuff. Aren’t you, chicken? A right powerful lady, high as you like.”

“Uh uh. Gonna be gen’ral. Like Papa,” Marie says, hitting her chest. 

“It’s not fair bringing her to negotiations,” Aramis says, pouting. “She’s too cute, and you know children are my weak spot.”

“Reason and goodness, good sense and kindness, remember?” Porthos murmurs. “Giving in to her, letting all concerns go. Does that put her in danger, down the line? What about Louis? What are your priorities? What kind of future will they have, depending on your choice? Will this have an effect on them?”

“I don’t know how to do this,” Aramis says. 

“I know. Anne really can help you with the dalliance, and Constance will be doing half the work. Seduction you can do, and that’s what we need. What Chevreuse won’t do for honour, or money, or love, she might do for all three plus a little of your flash, a bit of your grin, one of them rakish sprawls of yours. Remind her.”

“Is it a choice? Will it effect them?”

“No idea. Not my concern, right now. She’s a piece of a larger puzzle, for me.”

“Tell me, please.”

“I’m askin’, aren’t I?” Porthos says. 

“Yeah. Yes. Alright. I will write to her,” Aramis says. 

“Good,” Porthos says, and calls for paper and ink and a pen. 

They wait for the queen to return, which she does in good time. She sits with them and teaches Aramis the tricks of coyness, of coquetry, of seduction, when the outcome needed is simply desire, not sex. Porthos broods again, holding Marie as she takes her nap, her head heavy against his breast. He’s not got his armour today. He shuts his eyes, until he feels Aramis’s hand on his arm. 

“I’m sorry, Porthos,” Aramis says. “Anne’s gone, the letters are written. I’m sorry I cause you such strife.”

“Wouldn’t be you if you didn’t.”

“Are you getting what you need, from this? I know I always do, but what about you? I don’t think I’ve asked in a long time.”

“You haven’t. I get enough.”

“I love you.”

“Yeah. Could write a bit more about you, less about God. I know you think I should pray more, to keep safer, but it’s not what I need out there. Academic discussion about theology ain’t what I need, Aramis.”

“I have your back, remember. From here, from wherever. I will come for you, I will do whatever it takes. If what it takes is just writing, that is easy,” Aramis says. 

“It’s not just that. It’s Anne,” Porthos says. “Queen ‘a France, and I’m talking like she’s your lover.”

“She is my lover.”

“Yeah, and I’m her general and her advisor. I had to tell her why Orleans came first, had to advise her to leave you. I can’t do that if she thinks that what is between the two of you is also between her and me. I can’t do my job when she tries to manipulate me over her love for you. And I don’t like her laying claim to you, making sure I know she comes first. I know it, I’ve known it a long time. I am at peace with it, but… it still hurts, when she does it. She hurts, and she makes things hard.”

“You don’t like her.”

“She is my queen and I will defend her until my dying breath. I will do my duty and show my loyalty and I will love her and my country and I will serve with everythin’ I got.”

“Yes, but that’s the queen. I mean Anne. My Annie. You don’t like her, do you?”

“Not particularly. She’s a powerful woman I am happy to support and serve. Yeah, Anne as well as the queen, if you insister on ‘em being different. But no. She suits you, you’re both manipulative, scheming. You understand each other, understand each other’s emotion, actions, reactions. But no. She’s a good queen, a good woman, kind enough in her way, but reckless and careless and too alike to you.”

“She would have followed the woman in the woods, too,” Aramis says. 

“She would.”

“You wouldn’t. You followed that child, when we met Elodie and that lot.”

“There was four of us!” Porthos says. “There were four of us, three of you watching my back, two of you hanging back behind to see to things, we were- no, I would not, riding through a wood alone, trailed trustingly after a woman. I would have tried to help her, but I would not have trusted or followed her.”

“How could I have helped?”

“Stop and think. She’s there before you, weeping. You’re on your horse. You jump down and follow her. Now, don’t jump down, stay where you are. Stop. Think. Consider.”

“Right. Um, she’s crying, something’s wrong, she won’t talk and she’s going away.”

“Where? Going where? Why?”

“Into the trees.”

“What’s there?”

“More trees. No path.”

“Off the path? Why is she leaving the path?”

“Maybe it’s not safe. I should follow her.”

“Stubborn donkey.”

“I can smell smoke. I was about to leave the path, in case it was bandits.”

“Which way?”

“Which way was I going? Away from the path. The opposite way to the one she’s taking. I… I tell her that way’s not safe?”

“Okay. Does she listen?”

“No. She glances over her shoulder at me, though.”

“What else? What’s she wearing?”

“Poor clothes against that weather. A blanket, a hood.”

“Shoes?”

“Boots. Good boots. And a skirt, but… the wind… it’s easy to lift. Easy to run in those shoes. Heading for the smoke. Discrepancies, danger, right. Stop and think.”

“It gets quicker,” Porthos says. “Becomes instinct.”

“Who taught you? Treville?”

“Learnt all ‘a that long, long before Treville. Gutter rats are useful for various things, make a bit of money off them. Better money begging, labour for a bit of food, get into tight small places. Vulnerable to kindness, vulnerable to being lured away, no one notices them gone. Oh yeah, I learnt who to follow and who to let go. Who would just leave and who would attack. Who I needed to run from.”

“How come I never learnt any of that? Growing up wasn’t exactly safe.”

“Your mother loved you very much, and protected you, until she could not. Found you protection. Kept you safe.”

Porthos aches, suddenly, and he shuts his eyes again, squeezing Aramis’s hand, which is somehow in his. 

“Why have we not talked like this?” Aramis asks. 

“You never wanted to. You never talked about it being hard growing up, never talked about Savoy. I knowed you cared, and I knowed what you needed. But talk? You talk about theology, and fighting, and women, desire and love and life.”

“It’s on me, then.”

“And Athos, and d’Artagnan. And me, for being willing, for going along with it all. I had my stuff. We’re older, now, and, dare I say it, wiser in some ways.”

“Don’t follow strange women into the woods,” Aramis says. 

“They’ll whack you over the head and throw you down to break them bones of yours.”

“You want me to talk to you.”

“Yes.”

“You want me to tell Anne that I want her not to try and befriend you, want her not to intercede on my behalf.”

“Yes.”

“In return, what do I get?”

“What do you want?”

“I want… I want to ring the bell, and someone to come take Marie for a bit, to the kitchens if you like I know she always saves you pastries you love. I want you to kiss me.”

“Anne.”

“Buckingham is not the dalliance you seem to think. Anne and I are suited to one another in more ways that you realise. You do not see everything.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Yes, she’ll know. No, she won’t mind. No, you won’t be beheaded while you sleep.”

“That last one is what always scared you, not me!” Porthos protests, reaching for the bell. 

“What was yours, again? Ah yes, shut up forever in a windowless tower. Very ‘you’, my dear general. Elodie?"

"Understood this about me before she ever said yes to my proposal. We understand one another, as you and Anne do. Your head will bear up to my kisses?”

“Be gentle with me.”

They send the maid away with Marie, still snoozing, and Porthos kisses Aramis.

**Author's Note:**

> relationships: Anne/Aramis, Porthos/Elodie (mostly background), Porthos/Aramis (poly, no breakups or anything)


End file.
